


Something New

by the_ragnarok



Series: Abandoned Inception WIPs [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe, BDSM, M/M, Sex Toys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-04 18:26:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/713696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Arthur owns a sex-toy shop and Eames volunteers to beta-test the merchandise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something New

**Author's Note:**

> ABANDONED WIP, read at your own peril!

This has not been Arthur's day.

The subway is on strike, again. The heating in his apartment broke down, again. Arthur can't even bring it to his landlady's attention because he's late on the rent - _again_ \- and Arthur would rather not draw her ire just now. 

Being an entrepreneur sounded a lot better before he had to pay his goddamn rent on what he makes off his customers, that's for sure.

There's a man in the shop who looks like the annoying type. Arthur keeps himself busy behind the counter and does his best not to be looked at. Arthur's good at not being looked at. It's practically second nature for him. 

But keeping with the theme to Arthur's day, the man steps right up to the counter and slaps down a bunch of forms. Arthur eyes these, suspiciously, and says, "Can I help you?"

The man gives him a surprisingly shy smile. "I'm hoping it would be the other way around," he says, softly-spoken in a gorgeous accent that makes Arthur smile against his better judgment.

Right. Arthur gives the forms a second look. They're the stupid things Ariadne made for him, months ago, when he'd gotten it into his mind that what he needed to improve business was a better data-collection program.

"These are kind of outdated," Arthur says, more apologetic than he needs to be. "We ran out of funding for test subjects, sorry." He hopes it sounds more dignified than _I can barely even afford food, let alone pay someone to play with sex toys._

"Well." The man licks his lips. Arthur's attention is sadly diverted. "Depending on how the tests are conducted, I might volunteer."

"Is that so," Arthur says, wry and unaccountably amused. To compensate for this, he busies himself looking at the form. The name _Eames_ is scrawled in a large, loopy script over both the first and last name fields.

The man – Eames – seems encouraged. He rests his elbows on the counter, shifting closer, just on this side of propriety. "I realize you only work here," he says, "and do forgive me if I'm out of line – "

"I don't just work here," Arthur says, offended. "This is my shop." He straightens up, pointedly surveying the place. Not all of the merchandise is his – most of Arthur's business comes from porn, after all, and it's not like he could produce that by himself. 

The toys, though, are all Arthur's design. Arthur's improbably proud of every last cock-ring, each cleverly designed clamp. And the dildos, of course, all crafted from custom-designed models created by Arthur himself. And if he's particularly fond of the dildos, it's only because Arthur enjoys working with silicone, which is a lovely material for all of its little quirks. 

It's got nothing at all to do with the few of them that are modeled after Arthur's own, um, equipment.

"Is that so," Eames says. He leans in further, eyes lighting up.

"Volunteer information, did you say?" Arthur is trying to be cautious. On the other hand, someone is offering to be useful for no pay, and Arthur has not yet entirely gotten over his grad-student's instincts of _if it's free, grab it._

Eames must have caught a hint of Arthur's wariness, because he takes a step back and tones his smile down back to its earlier politeness. "If you like," he says. "I can just use the forms, right?"

"Self reporting, yeah." Arthur's nodding a bit too fast at that. He controls himself with a jerk of his chin, smiles at Eames and says, "I hope you find out merchandise satisfactory."

Eames looks a bit dazed. "I can't imagine I won't."

~~

Eames took up those forms for a lark, mostly. Eames' life has a tendency to throw ridiculousness at him, and he finds it best to fight fire with fire. The chance to chat with the lovely shopkeeper was just an incentive.

Said shopkeeper says, "Uh, I have some things in the back room we could look at."

Eames stops him as he starts moving. "I'm Eames," he says.

"Arthur," the shopkeeper says, offering Eames a hand to shake. It's a nice hand, dry and warm, skin a little rough. Eames keeps it in his grasp just the tiniest bit longer than he should, though not as long as he would've liked.

Arthur takes them to the back room, which is mostly full of cardboard boxes and a few items of interests. Arthur picks up one of them. "We're talking about toys for penetration, yes?"

Eames can't help but admire a man who can sound completely matter-of-fact when discussing dildos. Then again, of course, that's his job. "Yes." He takes the toy Arthur hands him. It's a beginner's model, barely thicker than a finger. "But perhaps something a little more... life-sized?"

"Life-sized? Or larger than life?" Arthur rummages through boxes. "I've got some of either that could use testing."

"Just life-sized, please," Eames says. There's an eleven-inch monstrosity on a shelf behind Arthur, and while Eames enjoys a challenge, he prefers to be able to walk the next day. "I'd also like something realistic, if that's okay. I find getting fucked by something shaped like a dolphin worrisome."

Arthur chuckles at that, then straightens. "I think I have something for you. Wait here for a second." He goes back into the store, leaving Eames alone among the phalluses. It's a good thing Eames doesn't have anything to develop an inferiority complex about, or he might have felt threatened.

Arthur comes back bearing something that, apart from being blue, could pass easily as belonging to a very fortunate human being. Eames holds it, hands curling around the girth of it – yes, just right, large enough for a satisfying stretch without becoming uncomfortable. And the feel of it – "What is it?" Eames says. "It doesn't feel like silicone."

"That's proprietary information," Arthur says, but he's leaning against the shelf and giving Eames a smile that makes his knees wobble. "Don't worry, it's FDA-approved."

"The FDA approves materials for sex toys?" Eames isn't really surprised at this, but it seems like passable small talk for this situation. 

"Something like that." Arthur takes the toy out of Eames' hands, which twitch minutely before surrendering it. It has a nice texture. Pettable, almost. "I'll add the general upkeep information along with the forms I want you to fill."

This is how, a few hours later, Eames finds himself at home contemplating a dildo.

Arthur's instructions say it's safe to use with any kind of lubrication, so Eames brings out his usual slick. The question of a condom is a tougher one – using one will make cleanup easier, but Eames wants to _feel_ it, that softness against and inside him. Arthur won't be wanting this toy back – what on earth would anyone want a used dildo for? – but Eames still feels like he's using something borrowed, and he can't be careless with other people's things.

He runs his fingers against the surface of it again, hesitating, then running it across his mouth. His lips are more sensitive than his hands, after all, and he wants to enjoy this fully while he can. It's almost as pleasant as real skin, retaining the warmth of Eames' hands, so that it's not even difficult to imagine something else in place.

Eames does not, as a rule, fantasize about people, not strangers or porn actors and certainly no one he knows. He takes pleasure, rather, in abstract scenarios played by entirely fabricated characters, only the smallest of details taken from life – the smell of skin, lips pressed somewhere unexpected, fingers in his hair (that one is particularly common).

And yet, just for a minute, he holds the fake prick and imagines looking up at Arthur's face, smiling at him. It's enough that he wants, can't help himself from taking the toy in his mouth, just for moment. Just to warm it up, so it keeps the heat of Eames' mouth to apply to other places, gone cold and untouched for too long. 

It's a nice sensation, one Eames misses more than he likes to realize. He takes it out and wraps it up, generously slicking it before lying back. He opens himself out quickly, businesslike, then pushes the toy inside slowly, savoring the feeling.

Eames is hardly a stranger to dildos and the use thereof. No replacement for a partner, but fun in their own right. 

However, at the first press, the toy seems to slide inside almost of its own volition. Eames grunts and shifts his hold over it. He doesn't want to rush this, and there is no reason he should, except that the toy is so _easy_ to push forward and in, such a lovely friction inside him even through the condom, that he finds himself going faster without quite meaning to.

Then it's in, all the way, and Eames doesn't even have to expend effort to make it hit his sweet spot every time. It just goes there, hardly directed, and if Eames could spare any sort of mental energy at the moment he'd find it odd.

He goes on like this for a while, thoughts of climax more and more urgent as he continues, until he can't help it – he takes himself in hand, firm, just on this side of rough. It's impossible, but Eames would swear he feels the toy swell and jump inside him as he tightened around it, not unlike a real cock.

After coming, Eames pulls the toy out, leaving it beside him. Once he can breathe normally again, he rises, intent on cleaning up himself and the toy. 

The toy, when Eames takes it in his hands, actually feels a bit shrunken. Eames would put it down to some sort of subjective perception, but he has an excellent spatial memory and the toy simply looks smaller in his hands.

Stripping the condom and washing the dildo, Eames murmurs, "What, exactly, are you made of?"

~~

Arthur's sorting through inventory in the back when he hears the shop bell ring. He doesn't come out. A lot of customers like a chance to browse unwatched, and therefore – at least in their minds – unjudged, and it's not like Arthur can't track them through the security camera feed anyway.

But the client who walked in doesn't seem to be looking at anything. He makes his way to the register counter and waits there. Arthur stands up, brushes dust off his clothes and makes his way out, blinking a little in the store's harsh fluorescent lighting. "Mr. Eames," he says. "I didn't expect to see you back so soon."

Eames is smiling. It doesn't look entirely voluntary. In fact, it looks like he can't stop. It's a little unsettling. "There you go," he says, handing Arthur the filled forms. Eames' hand is shaking, ever so slightly.

Arthur skims the forms and feels his eyebrows rising. "Three times?" He tries to tone down the incredulousness in his voice, with moderate success.

"I tried for four," Eames says. "Couldn't quite make it, but it was a valiant effort nevertheless."

Eames' knees don't look steady enough for Arthur's peace of mind. Arthur snags a chair from behind the counter and offers it to Eames, who collapses with a grateful sigh.

"So," Arthur says, after bringing a chair for himself and sitting next to Eames. "Any impressions you'd care to share verbally?"

"If I still have any verbal skills at all, then every teacher of mine has been proven right in claiming that _nothing_ can shut me up," Eames says. "I think your little toy broke the laws of physics. It's not that I'm complaining, mind you, just that if the world ends I'd be deprived of more of this, and that'll be a shame."

"Laws of physics," Arthur says, dry but more than a little pleased. "Really?"

"I don't even mean that in an entirely rhetorical manner." Eames looks as shamefaced as possible for someone high on endorphines. "I could swear that thing gets bigger on, er, insertion."

Arthur allows himself to grin. "Notice that, did you?"

Eames looks at him. "Really," he says, faintly. "And here I thought it was a hallucination brought on by overexposure to inorganic compounds."

"That doesn't even _mean_ anything," Arthur says, slightly irate. Eames shrugs as if to say, _can't let that stand in the way of a witty line, can it?_

It ought to be annoying, but Eames' smile is showing crooked teeth and for all that the affectionate look he gives Arthur is probably entirely hormone-driven, Arthur's not immune to it. 

To distract himself, Arthur digs in the box behind the counter. He's sure he had one – oh, there it is, one of the older models he made with the same material. It's not shaped at all, a featureless cylinder about eight inches long, but the effect is the same – more noticeable, actually.

Arthur shows it to Eames, who nods. Arthur then chafes his hand over it. "It responds to pressure, a little, but mostly to heat. As in body heat, or heat from intense friction. That makes it expand." Eames' gaze is on his hands, soft and focused, and Arthur abruptly stops ( _giving the toy a simulation handjob_ , Arthur very intentionally _doesn't_ think). "Anyway, you get the point. I have a patent pending on it."

"Clever," Eames says, swallowing. 

Arthur puts the toy away. He clears his throat and says, "So. Anything else?" He could, he supposes, just go over the forms Eames' filled; but what the hell, no clients are coming in and it's not like Arthur's desperate to go back to inventory. 

"Well," Eames says. "There is the matter of the color."

Arthur tries not to flush. He's tried, but, "I can't seem to do anything about that," he says. He knows a good realistic dildo is more – well, realistic – if it comes in some color naturally found in human skin, which bright blue isn't, leaving aside some cases of silver poisoning. "I tinker around with it a little, when I have the lab time, but it isn't often."

Eames tilts his head. "Oh?" Arthur can't tell whether Eames is actually curious or just using conversation as an excuse to sit down and catch his breath for a little longer. "You're still in school, then?"

"No." Arthur finished his PhD a year ago, and he's not going back to academia, thanks. "I do a little consulting work on the side, to a pharmaceuticals company. They let me play around in their labs sometimes."

"A pharmaceutical company." Eames' eyebrows rise. "Do they often consult manufacturers of... adult novelty items?"

That phrasing's borderline offensive, but Arthur's willing to let it slide for now. "No, but they do often like people with advanced degrees in chemical engineering to advise them." 

"I should introduce you to my mate Yusuf, then," Eames says. "Similar lines of work and that." It's an obvious enough line, aimed at continuing the conversation. But Eames' smile is warm, open and unquestionably directed at Arthur, and Arthur's starting to get a little worried.

"Maybe sometimes," Arthur says, maybe more brusque than he should be. "Anyway, if you had more impressions--?"

Eames accepts his cue to leave gracefully enough. "No, everything else I wrote down." But he can't seem to help the way his smile turns lascivious when he says, "Mainly it's effusive praise."

It's not like Arthur can help himself from smiling back at that, though, so supposedly it's all right.

~~

For all that Eames made zero progress on the Arthur front, the visit reminded him that he ought to call Yusuf, and so even leaving aside the non-negligible pleasure of Arthur's company, some good came of that visit.

"Can't speak," Yusuf says when he's answering his phone. "I seven assassinations to plan."

"Undergrads?" Eames summons his most understanding tone for this. "Is it time for midterms already?"

Yusuf groans. "Finals, Eames. I swear I only got through midterms a week ago." There's a rustle of paper on the other side of the line. "No, really, listen to this. 'If the air pressure is constant,' – "

"I won't understand any of what you're saying," Eames says, pleasantly. "You do realize this, right?"

Doggedly, Yusuf continues, " _'If the air pressure is constant,_ how do you increase the flow?"

Eames, who knows his intended part in these conversation, stays silent.

"Would you agree with me," Yusuf says, "that _changing the air pressure_ is not the correct answer?"

From Yusuf's tone of voice, Eames supposes no, and says so.

"I don't even know why I bother," Yusuf says, suitably despairing.

"With me or the undergrads?" It's mostly a rhetorical question, since Eames knows the correct answer is _both_. "Anyway, I meant to ask you – "

"I won't lend you any more money," Yusuf says.

"Sod off," Eames says with great dignity. "I meant to ask you about a matter of the heart, you uncaring tosser."

Yusuf snorts. "Right, tell me everything. Who is she and why won't she put out?"

"You are crass," Eames informs him. "You have no understanding of intimate matters. Also, it's why _he_ won't put out."

This time, Yusuf's snort conveys, _I'm still the one you called for advice, no?_ Yusuf has very expressive snorts. 

"So," Eames says. "Supposing you were a sex-toy-shop owner with an advanced engineering degree."

"Way out of your league," Yusuf says, because he hasn't an ounce of friendly feeling. "Unless he's butt-ugly."

Eames struggles with a sinking feeling. "I can't say that, no."

"Well, I – Oh, damn, wait." On the other end of the line there's a shuffle and an outraged _mrrrow!_ as Yusuf shoves some random feline away. "Sorry about that, she was trying to get at my dinner. As I was saying – "

"Are you eating while we're discussing my love life?" It's futile to express indignation at this point, but Eames may as well. It's not like he has anything to lose.

"Firstly, yes, I am. Secondly, I'm also grading tests. I can multi-task. I am competent in that way," Yusuf says grandly. "And finally, say thanks I'm not bringing out the popcorn."

Eames sighs dramatically. "My broken heart is nothing but a source of cheap amusement to you."

"Broken heart, my ass." There's a squeak – Yusuf must be leaning back in his horrible, horrible desk chair. " _Cheap_ is about right. How long did you even know this guy for?"

"Two days." Eames affects his best dreamy tone. "Two magnificent days."

"You're full of it," Yusuf says, but his is a gentle mockery and Eames is accustomed to it. "Anyway, you want to get this guy to like you? Start by liking him." Eames opens his mouth to answer this, but Yusuf won't let him. "I don't mean his, ahem, assets, I mean _him_. Engage him in conversation. Tell him stupid periodic table jokes, we chemistry people love that shit."

Eames is clever enough to know when his chain his pulled. And yet, "You think that might work?"

"Eames." Yusuf's tone is probably kinder than Eames deserves. "How did you even come to meet this paragon of virtue?"

He should probably be flushing right now, but if Eames ever had any delicate sensibilities, they likely wouldn't even have survived the first time he dated an amateur porn star. "I offered to test his merchandise."

There's a long silence, then Yusuf says, "I forgot it was you we're talking about. Never mind, just show up at his place with an empty pizza carton and ask if he wants extra sausage."

Eames grins. "Think he'll like that?"

"With my luck?" Yusuf says sourly, "He just might." Then there's a dial tone beeping at Eames. Eames huffs at the rudeness, and reminds himself to try and find someone nice for Yusuf. Someone who _would_ understand what's the problem about changing the constant flow or whatever it was.

~~

It doesn't really occur to Arthur that he's wearing his good suit.

It's a fairly sad state of affairs that Arthur has a single set of clothing that he can refer to as 'his good suit', but so it goes. He wore it today for his visit to Fischer-Morrow's offices, and didn't stop to change before heading back to the shop.

A few customers come by. One or two even buy something. It's a pretty decent day, overall, except that Arthur catches himself turning sharply to the door whenever he hears it swing open, invariably letting out a breath when someone walks in and it isn't Eames.

Arthur's not certain what he's hoping for, even. Eames was flirting with him, Arthur's sure of it. In a strange way, Arthur thinks he likes it, maybe even thinks he flirted back. It's what comes after that, that's the question.

Arthur's thoughts are chasing themselves in circles. It's just as well that they're interrupted by the door swinging open, and this time when Arthur turns to look his breath catches in his throat.

Eames looks good today, dressed in a light blue shirt, his collar slightly more open than is decent. Arthur doesn't look at Eames' pants, because his brain is apparently determined to go places that just aren't right.

Then again, the look Eames gives him is nothing short of blatant, going over Arthur head-to-toe. "You're all dressed up," he says, approving.

"Have to look respectable for business clients." Arthur leans back against the counter. If Eames wants to look, Arthur won't stop him. 

"And very respectable you look indeed." Eames' voice is low, pleasantly rough around the edges. If it were a tangible object, Arthur would have rubbed his hands all over it. In complete honesty, Arthur can sort of see himself rubbing his hands all over Eames' _everything_. This is part of the problem.

Then Eames visibly startles. Arthur stares, because Eames looks almost embarrassed. "But look at my manners," he says. "Here I am, fully intending to make myself pleasant to you, and what do I do but harass you the moment I enter. May I try this again?"

Slowly, Arthur nods.

Eames takes a deep breath. "Arthur, you should know that I find you infinitely fanciable." Arthur can't help his eyebrows from rising at that. Eames grins at him sheepishly. "And I would like to get to know you better. So since you're all dressed up and the store is closing in ten minutes – well, could I buy you a cup of coffee?"

Arthur looks at him for a long, long moment. Eames' smile fades. "I'll just leave you to your business then, shall I?"

There's a slow thought turning inside Arthur's mind. "I didn't say no."

"You didn't look particularly agreeable, either." Eames' expression is wary, but there's a hopeful look hiding somewhere behind that.

"I." It's not like Arthur to be caught off-balance like this, speechless. "I need to think about it. Okay?"

"Take your time, darling." Eames' warm smile is back. "In the meanwhile, was there anything else you wanted my opinion on?"

Left to his own devices, Arthur wouldn't have asked, because he's pretty certain that would have led to the most awkward moment in the history of sex shops, which is saying something. But. "Well, I have something that I could use a second opinion on," Arthur says. "I don't know if it's something you'd like, though."

"Try me." Eames sounds cheerful. Arthur supposes that's a good thing. "I'll do anything once."

'All right. Let's see if it works." Arthur may sound a little strained, because there are words that bypass Arthur's heart and go straight to his cock and what Eames just said belongs to that category. He roots behind the counter – he was keeping it there, not because he was thinking about giving it to Eames, not even a little. It was for some other reason, and Arthur will remember what it was any moment now.

He's thinking about it later, alone in his apartment. 

There's a porn actress moaning on his laptop. Arthur's not really watching the movie. It's just background noise to him, and that's part of the problem, right there. The problem is large and complicated, so Arthur does what he knows and takes it to pieces. 

Most important, right now, is the fact of Arthur's libido, which is... difficult.

Arthur's difficulties arise from a deadly threefold combination: One, his wants are... not specific, exactly, but firmly set. Two, Arthur's been working in the outskirts of the sex industry for long enough that he's thoroughly desensitized to a lot of things.

Three, there's the fact that Arthur did not, actually, ever have sex with anyone. This is mostly a problem because by now, Arthur has grown to think of getting off as a solitary activity, not unlike reading. 

Virginity wasn't some kind of ideological choice on Arthur's part. It's just – well, when you start college at sixteen, it's not just sex that's completely beyond you. It's people in general, and Arthur hates feeling like he's fumbling at anything. It's even worse, knowing there's someone watching you, someone waiting to point out possible mistakes. Arthur dislikes mistakes.

Later, it wasn't a question of confidence or the lack thereof. Arthur knows more about sex than most people think to ask. But it seemed pointless to ask for anybody's help in what Arthur could accomplish perfectly well by himself. Adding moving parts to a mechanism always increases the chances of a mechanism failing. The same logic seemed to apply well to orgasms.

Then again, there was something tantalizing about Eames, coming to meet Arthur on Arthur's terms, on his home turf. A little willingness to experiment could go a long way.

Arthur leaned back on his bed, eyes open, and thought about Eames. The image of a man fucking himself with a dildo is, to Arthur, less masturbation material than a professional curiosity. But replace the generality of a man with the specificity of Eames, and suddenly the whole picture changes.

At least half of it is in the nature of the toy Arthur gave him. It's entirely possible that Eames will take one look at the thing, shove it back in the bag and never look back. But maybe he won't. Maybe, for Arthur, Eames would be willing to try something new.

Arthur shoves a hand into his underwear, thinking about Eames doing something different to himself, finding new things he didn't expect to enjoy.

This is what Arthur loves best, what makes him bite his lip, makes his hand speed up on his cock; the thoughts of taking someone beyond their comfort zone, seducing them out of their limits. Doing things to make them come that they never knew they wanted. 

Except then, Arthur is left with come-filled underwear and a glum awareness that thoughts like these are probably why people end up on sex-offender lists.

~~

Eames is rather certain that he's having an atypical reaction to this. That he ought to be eying the thing with disgust, or maybe disturbed enough to put it away and never think of it again.

He probably should not be thinking Oh, Arthur, fond and slightly disbelieving, as he holds the dildo Arthur gave him, which is shaped like a tentacle. 

It's blue. It has little silicone suckers and everything. Well, not silicone, Eames supposes. Whatever Arthur calls that material – Eames will have to ask him. Frankly, the thought of putting that thing up his arse is more hilarious than arousing. Eames can barely look at it and keep a straight face. 

Still, a gentleman does not go back on an agreement, and Eames did promise Arthur. So off come his trousers and his pants, on with the condom and the lube. Eames should at least make an honest attempt at this.

The toy is a twisted curve. Narrow at the end, more so than Eames generally likes, but it thickens gradually until, at the base, it's twice as wide as Eames' own cock. Eames is careful, working it in. He can feel the raised bumps of the suckers, rubbing him from the inside – which, it turns out, isn't unpleasant in the least. Eames takes a minute to breath, to settle himself around the thing.

He's not prepared to feel it move.

It's only a tiny shift, nothing Eames would even notice if it weren't happening inside him, but it's definitely there. It feels like something alive, squirming in him. It feels, it feels like a tongue, long enough to lick him all the way inside.

Eames decides that he can stand to feel a little more of this.

He pushes it inside, until he's stretched, almost uncomfortably full, giving the toy a helping hand to encourage its wiggling. It – or so it feels – roots through Eames, touching everywhere, exploring and moving until Eames shivers and bucks and comes. 

He pulls the toy and looks at it, this time, marks how it's shrinking in his hand. Eames can see, now, how the movement was affected – how the curve of the toy would make it move when it changed in size. Still bloody amazing, though.

Eames cleans the toy up, running an affectionate hand over it under the water stream. "You're a wizard, darling," he whispers, shutting off the tap.

~~

It's Tuesday night, so after work Arthur drives to Ariadne's place to pick her up for corsetry class. As usual, he has to honk and wait in the car for ten minutes before Ariadne comes rushing out, then wait for five minutes more when she realizes she forgot something and dashes back to get it.

She slumps into the driver's seat, out of breath. Arthur asks, "What was it this time?"

"Stays." Ariadne holds up a handful of plastic boning. Then her face crumples. "Aw, fuck, I forgot my laces."

"One, you don't even need the laces yet." Arthur frowns at the state of the road. Would it kill them to clear up the snow in a timely manner? "Two, look in the glove compartment." Arthur has known Ariadne for more than four years now. At this point, it's just easier to bring extras of everything than to double back for everything she forgets.

Ariadne finds the spool of ribbon and flashes Arthur a grateful smile. "I really appreciate you taking this class with me."

"No problem." It's not the kind of thing he would do on his own, but Ariadne him asked nicely to join her and once he did he came to the conclusion that it's actually pretty interesting. He always did like doing things with his hands.

Beside, it was that or whip-making, and there were two ways _that_ could have gone; either Arthur would have failed at it miserably and gotten all huffy about it (Ariadne's wording, not his) or – worse – he would have turned out reasonably good at it and ended up with yet more projects that he didn't have time for.

Arthur knows himself. Make something plausibly _for work_ and he'd end up spending nonexistent sleeping hours on it. Better to keep to something that was enjoyable but not likely to take control of Arthur's life the way his hobbies sometimes did. After all, the last time he'd allowed Ariadne to talk him into _trying something different_ , he ended up dropping out of academia and opening a sex-toy shop.

They manage to be only slightly late. It's not even awkward as the instructor pauses in her explanations while Ariadne makes the rounds hugging everyone she knows. Which is pretty much everyone; Ariadne is social to a degree that baffles Arthur.

Arthur prefers to sit down, shut up and power up the sewing machine. There's more than a little fascination, to him, in the purely technical aspects of this. Arthur knows a little something about sewing – when you like to dress sharply on a grad-student's budget, you pretty much have to – but this is different, heavier fabrics that what he's used to: This is not meant to drape prettily, but to hold in place.

Actually, the material he's working with would make a damn nice waistcoat. Arthur resolves to keep that in mind.

The class passes without further incident. Well, Ariadne does insist that Arthur try on the corset she's making, in spite of an abundance of more eager volunteers. (It's not that Arthur minds wearing it, it's just that Ariadne isn't particularly good at this yet and her stays tend to slide out of place and poke into his ribs.)

As they get into his car, she asks, "Would you mind dropping me off at the Cobbs'? Mal's away and I promised her I'd come and keep Dom company."

"Sure." Arthur hasn't seen Dom in a while, either. Might as well drop by. 

It's been some time since Arthur last visited the Cobb residence. He parks outside, lets Ariadne lead. The wet grass in their yard squeaks when he steps on it. The windows are lit, and even from the street it's visible that this house is _lived_ in. When he comes inside, Arthur knows that at least one pet and/or child will leap at him, and that there will be hurried demands of the _Don't let it get away!_ sort that may pertain to said pet or child, or not.

Arthur lets out a breath. He's smiling when Dom opens the door.

The house is uncharacteristically quiet. "Past the kids' bedtime," Dom says. 

Ariadne helps herself to a glass of wine. Arthur takes in the state of Dom's shirt and asks, "Did you eat anything today that didn't contain peanut butter?"

"Don't answer that," Ariadne says, swirling the wine in her glass. The effect is slightly diminished by the fact that said glass is actually a sippy cup.

"What the lady said." Dom leans back on the counter. "Unless you're offering to make dinner."

Of course Arthur ends up cooking. He doesn't actually mind. Dom and Ariadne stay in the kitchen to entertain him, Ariadne with her unending list of craft projects and Dom with the latest news from Mal's dig.

"Tell me when they find a brontosaurus," Ariadne says. "Until then, not interested."

This makes Dom scowl and protest that this isn't even the kind of archeology Mal does, that technically it's not even _archeology_ , and that familiar argument gets them through cooking the sauce. Arthur puts Ariadne in charge of the pasta and goes to sit outside for a little.

Mal likes to joke that the porch swing is Arthur's territory. It's true, in a sense. The Cobbs, by both inclination and necessity, tend to host parties with unfortunate amounts of guests, and of course Arthur has to at least make an appearance. The swing is where Arthur retreats when he's overwhelmed, when he wants to think.

For now, he thinks about cooking. He doesn't often do that. It feels wasteful when there's only himself to feed and he ends up throwing half away. For all that he grumbles about it, he likes having people to make things for. 

One of the things that put Arthur off pursuing a relationship, earlier in his life, was being put off by how much classic relationships felt like some weird kind of transaction: _Buy me dinner, I'm yours for the night._ It felt simultaneously cold and inefficient, and there was nothing about it that appealed to him. 

It didn't occur to Arthur until much later that people did things, sometimes, because it genuinely made them happy to make the other person happy. Come to think about it, he realized that around the same time he'd met Dom and Mal.

"Arthur!" Ariadne yells from inside. "Food's ready!"

For a reason Arthur can't fathom, something tightens inside him. He knows that feeling. It means he just made a decision. "In a minute!" he yells back. "I need to make a call."

He has Eames' number from the forms he made him fill. He dials it quickly, not stopping to think. 

"Yeah?" Eames sounds sleepy when he answers. 

Arthur glances at his wristwatch with a sudden pang. Damn it, he should start taking into account how these late-night get-togethers make him lose sense of time. "Did I wake you?"

"Nah, mate." Eames' accent sounds different, Arthur notes. Softer, a little more nasal. Not at all unpleasant. "I can talk. What is it?" It changes audibly as Eames becomes more alert, crisper around the edges.

"About what you asked." Arthur swallows. "Look. Well, listen."

Eames huffs a laugh.

"I think I might like... Something. With you." Great. Way to be articulate, Arthur. "But. There are some things we should talk about first."

"Sure." The amusement in Eames' voice is pervasive. "Grab a cup of coffee and get to know each other. In short, what normal people would call a _date_." 

"Eames," Arthur says, and it's the only warning he can give right now, "you can say a lot of things about me. Normal isn't one of them."

He can almost see Eames grinning on the other side of the line. "Darling," he says, "I wouldn't want normal if I could get it."


End file.
